by TL Dyer
Chapter 53
Before today, I could count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been inside a courtroom. The first was for Shaun’s sentencing, and two others were in my capacity as an officer, giving evidence at criminal proceedings. In time, the process will undoubtedly become easier and more familiar, but for now I still find it nerve-racking. A psychologist might say that’s because of what the court represents to me. Rules broken. Someone doing wrong and paying the price. I feel little different about it now, as I sit alongside Jen in the Family Court, Darren Isaacs and his solicitor just a few metres to our left, and Judge Howard on a raised platform before us, setting out her stall for how the hearing will proceed. The tone she uses strikes a balance between formal and informal, though the words she speaks are no doubt the same ones she repeats daily. Yet when she concludes that the main purpose of this hearing is to resolve the matter in the least amount of moves possible whilst keeping the child in this case uppermost in our minds at all times, it’s done with a sincerity I’d find touching if I wasn’t so consumed with the suffocating discomfort that I’m here at all, needing a stranger to decide my son’s life.
Jen taps at my thigh with her hand and gives me a reassuring smile when I bring my head up. I nod once to show I’m fine, and glance past her to where Darren sits, his gaze fixed ahead on the judge. He hasn’t looked at me once. It’s hard to read his expression, his jaw firm and body still, but even in the navy suit and pinstripe shirt he wears, he seems to have lost a few inches in height. Despite our progress of late, it feels like he couldn’t be more distant.
We’re only minutes into the proceedings when I find out why.
Judge Howard addresses the safeguarding letters submitted to the court via CAFCASS, the Children and Families Court Advisory and Support Service. And while my own was returned clear of any convictions or issues that could raise concerns for Jake’s welfare, Darren’s is less straightforward.
‘Regarding Mr Darren Isaacs, CAFCASS records Mr Isaacs was issued a caution on 28th July 1990, following a report of a domestic disturbance made by Mrs Kathleen Horton. You are aware of this, Mr Sheppard?’
‘Yes, your honour. That’s correct. Mrs Horton was a neighbour to Mr and Mrs Isaacs when they moved into their first home following their marriage, and it’s understood she mistook a simple domestic disagreement and raised voices for something more serious. The police were called, and Mr Isaacs, rather than make the situation worse as they were new to the neighbourhood, accepted the officer’s caution. It was nothing more than that. A case of cross wires, and a particularly vigilant elderly neighbour.’
‘Another allegation was recorded, by Mrs Eliza Isaacs, on September the 18th, 2002, in which Mrs Isaacs alleged Mr Isaacs had assaulted their son, Mr Craig Isaacs. Is this also correct, Mr Sheppard?’
‘It’s correct that the allegation was made, but shortly afterwards Mrs Isaacs withdrew it. This was a difficult period in their lives during which Mrs Isaacs was struggling with the passing of her beloved grandmother back home in Ireland. She was finding it difficult coming to terms with the fact she had not been in Ireland with her family at the time of her grandmother’s death. For a time, Mr Issacs says his wife became very bitter and angry and took it out on the family in a number of ways, including making these false allegations against my client.’
‘Finally, CAFCASS records that police were called to Mr Isaacs’ property in Newbridge, on the 5th of May 2018, following reports of a domestic violence incident, once again made by Mrs Isaacs. Mr Sheppard, correct?’
‘Your honour, if I may again put the incident in context. This report was made during the very difficult weeks following the sudden death of Mr and Mrs Isaacs’ son, Craig, when Mrs Isaacs in particular was vulnerable and suffering severe depression and anxiety, for which she was being treated by her doctor with high-dosage medication. My client informs me that her mental state was fragile at best, destructive at worst. Here again, she looked to release some of her terrible grief, anger, and bitterness on those closest to her. You’ll note, your honour, that the allegation was not pursued, and again it was Mrs Isaacs herself who refuted her original statement and requested the case closed.
‘In addition, your honour, my client wishes to make known that both he and his children suffered immeasurably over the years from Mrs Isaacs’ mental difficulties, and now that the marriage has ended, he is keen to put those troubled years behind him and move forward with a positive outlook both personally and professionally. Having already lost one son in the most tragic of circumstances, he’s understandably committed to building a relationship with his second son, Jake Sanderson, the child at the centre of this case, and requests with honesty and humility, your honour, that he be given the opportunity to do so.’
In the silence that follows Mr Sheppard’s lengthy rhetoric, Closing my eyes to shut out the glaring overhead strip lights, a deep thrum starts up in my ears, my quickening heartbeat drowning out thought. The judge says something I don’t catch, the air shifts around me, and when I open my eyes Jen is on her feet and speaking.
‘Your honour, it would be remiss of me to not mention that my client has expressed concerns concerning Mr Isaacs’ treatment of his former wife. And in light of the CAFCASS findings, I believe it’s our duty, in the interest of Jake’s welfare, to consider the matter further before contact arrangements can be agreed. Thus, we would strongly welcome and support a decision to proceed to a full CAFCASS report.’
Jen sits, her eyes firmly on the judge. She looks certain, confident. Whereas I feel like I’m on a treadmill that’s going too fast. I daren’t look towards the next table. I daren’t look at the judge. Instead I focus on my hands in my lap, Mam’s ring on my index finger. I grip it tight in my other hand as the judge speaks.
‘Mr Isaacs, please note that the decision I conclude with today bears no reflection on whether I believe the allegations made by your estranged wife to be correct or otherwise, but simply that at this point in time the findings of the CAFCASS letter, which is a perfunctory enquiry, are such that they warrant further attention before a final decision on child contact arrangements can be established. Therefore, I’ll be instructing CAFCASS to compile a more thorough report, in which they will collate information from all parties, including the child in question. It is done sensitively, of course, but it will be thorough, to ascertain the child’s needs and wishes, and will conclude with its recommendations for how the order for child arrangements should proceed.
‘In respect of a timeline, the report may take upwards of 12 weeks to prepare, following which we will reconvene. In the meantime, Mr Isaacs is advised that Miss Sanderson retains sole custody of Jake, and any visitation arrangements are at her discretion. Thank you.’
We rise from our seats as Judge Howard gathers her papers and leaves through a side door. Jen closes the folder on the table in front of her. Across from us, Darren buttons his suit jacket as his solicitor mutters a few words beside his ear, and then they leave, crossing just feet away. Neither acknowledges me, and Darren’s features are unreadable. I watch him stride out of the court without turning back.
When the doors swing shut behind him, I wonder why I don’t feel pleased about what just happened. I don’t feel anything at all.
Jen double-taps my arm with the back of her hand. ‘That’s what instinct gets you, Sach.’ She winks and smiles, as if confirmation Darren Isaacs may be as shady as we imagined him to be is a good thing. ‘Come on, let’s go get you a drink. You look like you could do with one.’
‘If you don’t mind, Jen,’ I say, still staring at the closed door. ‘I just want to go home to my son.’
Chapter 54
‘So what now?’ Dad asks, sitting beside me on the wooden bench while Shaun kicks a football with Jake around the lawn in front of Dad’s workshop. ‘What does this mean for the boy? For you?’
I blow out a long sigh. ‘Three months of questions then back to court. Jen says it could mean supervised visits are as much as
he’ll be entitled to. In which case, they’ll be at my discretion, or an intermediary if we can’t get along.’
‘Bloody hell, Sach. So what was he reported for again?’ He eyes me sideways, knowing full well I haven’t told him everything. I can’t. If I do that, then Scotland will be off the calendar for good. And I’m not having that on my conscience along with everything else.
‘Allegations that went nowhere. Minor offences,’ I lie. ‘A long time ago,’ I lie again.
The caution, at least, was a long time ago, soon after Darren and Eliza married. The next report was when Craig was ten years old and trying to protect his mother from his father’s fists. Eliza must have been upset enough to call the police on her husband for that, but something stopped her from seeing it through. And then the third call to the police, not a long time ago at all, just last year. Was that the final straw? Did she agree to withdraw her allegation only if he let her leave Ty Bryn? Leave the marriage? Or was it as Darren’s solicitor explained it, was Eliza unhinged, acting irrationally, vindictive and bitter? Lauren certainly had no patience for her, and Craig wasn’t worried about leaving her behind when he walked out at sixteen. If he’d been concerned for her safety, wouldn’t he have stayed? To watch over her, even if he couldn’t do anything to help her?
‘The most important thing is they’re being thorough,’ I say, for myself as much as Dad. ‘The report won’t leave any stone unturned. Then it’s just a case of abiding by their recommendations. If there’s even the slightest of concerns for Jake’s welfare, his sole parental responsibility will remain with me, and that means I have control over how much or how little interaction they have and under what conditions. Everything will be down to me. So you’ve nothing to worry about, Dad. Everybody involved wants what’s best for Jake, and that’s all that matters.’
Shaun lets out a roar of mock pain on the makeshift football pitch. Jake clings to his leg with both arms and brings his uncle down to the ground, then lands on top of him, giggling as the wounded player rolls around in dramatic agony.
‘Grampy!’ Shaun calls. ‘Help, Grampy! Get him off me.’
Dad watches them, his thin smile caught between pride and concern. ‘God help, Sach. Are you sure you can cope with them by yourself?’
‘You mean the kids? Piece of cake.’ I get up from the bench to separate the scrapping pair. ‘Right, you two.’ As they both freeze at my voice, I snatch Jake up, still chuckling, and prop him sideways over my hip. ‘Uncle Shaun, that was a clear foul. You’re red-carded.’
‘What? I didn’t do nothing.’
‘Exactly, which means you did something. And crazy Jake, it’s off to the showers for you, son.’
He tries to whine at the decision in the same way his uncle did, but he’s laughing too much to make it convincing. Setting him down on his feet, I crouch for him to climb up for a piggy back.
‘Will we see you tomorrow, love?’ Dad asks, as we cross to the rear gate for the short walk home.
‘Yeah, I said I’d help Shirley pack up some of her sewing equipment.’
Shaun tuts from where he sits propped on his elbows on the grass. ‘There you go again. Can’t wait to get rid of her.’
‘Help, Shaun. I said help.’
‘Alright, you two, that’s enough.’ Dad unlatches the gate and high-fives Jake before we pass through.
‘Hey, Little Man?’ Shaun shouts behind us. ‘Don’t forget about that game on your phone.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Jake’s arms tighten around my neck. ‘Mam, can Uncle Shaun come over after?’
‘What game? I thought you already had a game.’
‘I finished it. This is part two.’
‘The boy’s a gaming genius, aren’t you, Little Man?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he says, so loud and proud beside my head, my ear buzzes.
‘Great,’ I mutter, and roll my eyes at Dad. ‘Grampy, does this farmhouse of yours have room for one more? I might just leave this pair behind to look after themselves.’
‘It’s got room for every single one of you,’ he answers, jumping at the chance to remind us.
‘I don’t mind where I sleep. I’ll cosy up in the chicken coop if I have to.’
Jake clucks in my ear all the way from Dad’s house back to ours and for another five minutes after, while he’s clearing away the Lego he left over the living room floor before Dad picked him up. I had told him I was going to court, hence the skirt and blouse I wouldn’t wear on a normal day, but I told him it was for work. The day when I have to explain the truth will come soon enough.
I haven’t heard yet from Darren but, once he’s cooled off after the earlier blow, I imagine I will. Or maybe, now that he’s relieved of control, he’ll keep his head down instead until the CAFCASS report is complete. The matter’s out of his hands, his position weakened, and anything he does in the interim that I don’t agree with could reflect badly on him. To my benefit, a three-month reprieve gives me time to think matters through, explore the thoughts that prod at my conscience like a poker fresh out of the fire, but which, for tonight at least, I refuse to acknowledge. The only things on my mind this evening are the spaghetti bolognese I intend to cook for the two of us and which movie we’ll cuddle up to watch on the sofa before bed.
‘Jake, is that room clear yet?’ I call from the kitchen, where I’m waiting for the kettle to boil for the spaghetti. My phone buzzes on the counter, notification of a voicemail message, the ringtone still on silent from the courtroom earlier.
‘Jake?’ I call again, lifting the phone to my ear.
I go through the dining room to the living room as I listen to the preamble before the voicemail kicks in. The room’s empty, the Lego cleared away and in its box by the fireplace.
‘Jake?’
Out to the hall where his shoes are lined up side by side beside his Hot Wheels backpack. Every day since he came back from Scotland those shoes in the hallway have been a simple but glorious sight.
At the bottom of the stairs, I’m about to call up, when I’m stopped by the voice in my ear.
‘Hi, this is a message for Sacha Sanderson. It’s Bryan Castle here. I understand you’ve been trying to reach me. Or more specifically, reach my daughter. Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. As you’ve probably guessed, Appleberry’s out in the sticks, so communication is a bit of a sore point. I come up to the village once a month, sometimes less, so I’ve only now got your message from Rory in the shop.
‘I can’t be much help though, I’m afraid, my daughter hasn’t lived here for some time. Our relationship is about as patchy as this phone signal, so it is. But aye, she’s currently in Wales, though I couldn’t tell you exactly where. I assume they’ve moved from where they were previously. We haven’t heard from her this past twelve months and I’m guessing that’s the reason. Her mother and I would be the last to know, unfortunately, but that’s kids for you, eh? They’ll punish you for your mistakes, so they will.
‘Sorry I can’t be more help than that. If you do get in touch with her, maybe you could ask her to call home. Her mother would love to hear how she and the children are getting on. All the best now.’
To listen to the message again, press one. To save the message, press two. To delete the—
‘Jake?’ I call, louder now, defying my heart not to race in my chest, blood not to run cold, voice not to shake when I yell again. ‘Jake!’
Still nothing. And the bathroom door open, I can see it from here. He’s not up there.
Running down the hall and through the kitchen. Throwing open the back door. The garden’s empty. I don’t see him. Around the side of the house. Nothing.
‘Jake!’
Back inside, heart pounding, mind racing. What if Darren… What if he…
‘What?’ Jake’s head appears over the banister. He’s stopped midway down the stairs. ‘Is Uncle Shaun here yet?’
Flooded with relief but with every nerve-ending piqued, I drop the phone on the kitchen counter and march d
own the hall, my voice rising: ‘Why didn’t you answer me?’
‘I did.’
‘No, you didn’t, Jake. I called you umpteen times and you didn’t answer. I wondered where you’d gone. You should always answer when I call you. Always.’
‘But I did,’ he whines, blood rushing to his cheeks, eyes wide and as blue as… As blue as his father’s. ‘I was in the den.’
‘What den? You don’t have a den.’
‘I do. Uncle Shaun said everyone should have a den. His is the garage. Grampy’s is his workshop. Nanna Shirley’s is her sewing room. Mine’s under the bed.’
‘Under the bed. Course it is.’
The dump of adrenaline hits its peak and drains. My legs turn to jelly. I sigh as I reach over the banister to brush the hair from his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, darling. My fault. Uncle Shaun’s right, everyone should have a den. Maybe I should get one of my own.’
‘He said you already have one,’ he answers, chin on his chest, eyes dipped to where his toes curl into the stair carpet.
‘Did he now? And I suppose it’s the kitchen, is it?’ I say, imagining my brother’s joke at my expense.
Jake shakes his head, mumbles into his chest. ‘He said it was where you work.’
‘Oh. Right.’ It’s not often that Shaun surprises me, and so I have to wonder if what he means is complimentary or not. ‘And what do you think about that? Do you think that’s a good den or a bad one?’
His bottom lip flips in and out of his mouth as he thinks about that. Then he shrugs a shoulder. ‘Good a place as any,’ he says. And much as I try, I can’t stop from smiling at the expression I’ve never heard him use before. His uncle’s words, no doubt.
The chime of the doorbell signals the arrival of the man himself.
‘Talk of the devil,’ I say, as Jake runs back upstairs to fetch his phone, my telling off already forgotten.
‘Come without your key again, you wally?’ I say, throwing open the door.
